


Gunpoint

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Cigarettes, Coercion, Gen, The Mob, Threats of Violence, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Francis shares a cigarette with Dragut before going into a mob wedding party he's been 'invited' to perform at.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 5
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Gunpoint

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, 5 October 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188145357775/whumptober-5)

The cuffs of the new shirt itched. The jacket was inflexible and heavy and the trousers sagged even with the belt he had grudgingly been allowed. At least Dragut was the one who drove him to the venue; he was content to let Lymond have a cigarette in peace outside first. He even offered one of his own and joined him in a slouch against the shining black car.

They were in an alley at the back of a restaurant brimming with the smell of garlic and lovingly cooked meat. It made Lymond's empty, nervous stomach twist and he tried to choke those scents with the chemical bitterness of black market tobacco. It didn't help matters that he had not worn a suit jacket since the night Eloise had gone missing, and as for a shirt... He pulled fitfully at the collar, which was already undone further than was usually appropriate for this kind of establishment.

Dragut raised a thick dark brow. "You got this?"

"I rather thought that was non-negotiable."

The big man grinned. "She's a teenage girl. Just sing some Osmonds, she's not gonna care."

"You'd be surprised by how discerning teenage girls can be," Lymond returned scathingly. "And besides, it's her father I'm worried about."

Dragut drew on his cigarette with a nonchalant shrug. He knew the boss didn't give a shit about the music, so long as his little girl was happy. And his little girl was getting married, so today, of all days, she would be happy. Or else.

Lymond, as a key component of the after party's entertainment, felt that he understood this imperative rather better than Dragut. And it should have been fine – it was just music, after all, and he knew he could perform to even the most demanding audiences – but he had no guitar to channel his nerves into. It was his voice they wanted, and nothing more. Session musicians he barely knew would play in a reserved section of the restaurant, and he would be set up at a mic stand nearby. He seethed with the frustration of it.

Still, if it was his voice they wanted, weighing his chest down with Dragut's tar-heavy cowboy-killers would do him no good. Lymond stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and waited for Dragut to finish.

Just inside the peeling metal kitchen door, two men stopped them; they looked almost as uncomfortable in their suits as Lymond felt. One doorman patted the singer's body down inside the jacket while Lymond stood with his hands out like a sea-bird sunning itself, gazing dully at the weapon in the other doorman's hands.

"Your people bought me this suit, you know. I haven't even cut the pockets."

"Better safe than sorry," snarled the one with the gun.

Dragut submitted to a similar search and handed his own pistol over – in a venue about to witness a union between Irish and Italian gangs the official policy was to leave weapons at the door. "See, we're even," he clapped Lymond's shoulder. "You have no guitar, I have no gun, we survive by our wits alone!"

Lymond half turned, examining the armed doorman again.

"It is reassuring to know that a flat note can't be addressed by a hail of bullets."


End file.
